


Search Party Lights in the Woods

by consecrated



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Daryl, Dissociation, Gen, Homophobia, Nonbinary Character, Platonic Relationships, Trans Character, Trans Daryl, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-06 23:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6775162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consecrated/pseuds/consecrated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silky dresses always caught his eye, made him want to touch, to feel, to hold, to wear. He wanted to feel something, to feel anything at all.</p><p>Daryl feels like he's slowly disappearing, but after so many years of forcing himself to hate who he was, now during the apocalypse perhaps letting himself feel pretty won't be the end of the world.</p><p>Rick wants to find Daryl, the real Daryl who's not a man and not a woman, who's scared and alone and needs to be found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Search Party Lights in the Woods

There was something about the smoothness of silk that made him feel pure. Running the fabric across his bruised and scraped knuckles, he couldn’t feel any of the ordinary aches and pains he constantly lived with, he didn’t notice the dirt under his nails or the scars on his palms.

Daryl remembered the first time Merle found him gently caressing a silky black dress -- the two had been scouting through a clothing store to lift some lingerie for Merle’s girlfriend, using their five finger discount. The elder brother lightheartedly told him to get his faggy hands off it because silk wasn’t Jenny’s style.

And while Merle most likely forgot the incident almost as soon as it happened, something stuck to Daryl like barbed burdock. _Faggy hands_ , _fucking faggot_.

He’d been called a fag before, of course he had. He was slim and quiet and didn’t look at girls, but in that moment with that beautiful dress in his hands, it caught him where it hurt. It was something deep and pervasive, he never let himself think about sexuality because he knew if he thought about it too much, he’d twist himself into a whirlwind of crisis because tits do anything for him, and no, cock didn’t either, but that wasn’t the point.

Whether he was gay or something different all together… the fact was that he _was_ different and with the life that he lived and the people he lived it with, that was dangerous. It was more than dangerous, it could kill him. Maybe they wouldn’t do the job for him, but slowly, over time, isolation and being ostracised would slowly wear him away until he was nothing and Daryl never, _never_ wanted to be nothing. No matter how quiet he was, or how unassuming, Daryl was terrified of the idea that he didn’t mean anything to the world.

But that little black dress, that meant something to him. Touching it made him feel real.

For years he stopped thinking about it, almost forcibly, because life was too fast and Atlanta was too busy and even though the days were spent throwing away what little money they had on drugs and whisky, sitting around with tweakers and thugs and crack whores, watching cartoons and throwing darts at drywall… he didn’t have time to think about silk dresses.

He couldn’t let himself have time to think about silk dresses.

Men weren’t supposed to want to feel beautiful. Men weren’t beauty, men were rough and calloused and wore dirt with pride and spat broken teeth onto sidewalks with blood dripping from their noses. Men didn’t want to feel a silk dress cascade down their body unless it was being rubbed against them from the body of a beautiful girl with big breasts and full lips. Men didn’t need to be pretty.

One evening, when Merle was away getting high with some buddies, Daryl had a moment where he needed to feel pretty.

He washed all the dirt from his hands and face, almost ritualistically, cleansing himself. He peeled away his filthy and ragged clothes, and crept into Merle’s room. His brother’s girl often left her clothes thrown around his floor, and he carefully picked up a small red babydoll piece, with lace trim and sheer fabric. It was delicate and beautiful and all that Daryl wanted in that moment. After a brief a moment of hesitation, moment of doubt, he did a U-turn and opened the shitty rusted old washing machine crammed in their hallway. Sure enough, he pulled out a pair of panties and fuck, they were silk. Damp and reeking of dollar store detergent, no matter how much he felt like a pervert, no matter how much he hated himself with all the disgust in the world, he need to feel real. He yanked them over his creamy thighs, letting the strap rest on his hips, shifting the fabric over his groin until he felt perfect.

He felt dainty and delicate, and he _liked_ it.

Daryl walked back to his room, slowly pulling on the babydoll lingerie, and stopped in front of his mirror.

Behind the dirt and muck and smudges on the glass, he could see someone beautiful and confident, with their long legs and slim waist, narrow chest and broad shoulder upon which hung a beautiful tiny dress, who’s fabric draped over their form and ended at their hips.

“Fucking faggot ass pervert!”

When Merle caught him, standing there in his girlfriend’s underwear, Daryl had thought he’d kill him. It was possible he’d repressed some the memories proceeding his brother’s arrival, because when he thought back to that time things were blurry and strange. He remembered being hit, hard, breaking his nose and staining blood on that pretty red lingerie. He remembered being dragged across the floor, being kicked, having the silk ripped off him and having his body pushed out the door. It didn’t feel like him though, it felt like he was watching someone else be tossed naked out onto the doorstep, bruised and bloody. Like a dream, or a reality tv show, he was the audience and some pathetic queer was the entertainment, left vulnerable and half conscious to curl up for hours on the stoop.

Merle didn’t talk to him for weeks after that, and then never brought up the incident again.

 

* * *

 

It was spring, the world was thawing again, flower sprouting from under the wheels of abandon cars and grass growing on long forgotten headless corpses.

The group was on the move, but had so far been living fairly comfortably. Bellies were generally full, no one was dying, and nights were warm in run down suburban houses with insulation and blanketed beds. Daryl was careful not to let his guard down, made sure not to forget the feeling of starvation and fear lest he grow soft. They might be doing well now, but the world was unpredictable. For once they’d made it through the winter with ease, so who knew what summer would bring. Drought? Famine?

They were lucky to happen upon this town. It was fairly isolated but obviously very upper middle class. Houses were large, stores were close, big, and quite luxurious. Daryl had never been in a health foods store. He didn’t even know what quinoa was.

Because of the town’s location, much of it was left untouched. The people who’d lived there had obviously evacuated quickly, before they’d realized the severity of the situation and thus hadn’t ransacked the stores on their way out, and obviously since the turn the place hadn’t seen many survivors come through. Perhaps one or two, as seen by a few broken windows and picked through pharmacies, but nothing like most of the towns they’d been through before.

It was just another stroke of good luck, which again, made Daryl nervous. They had it too good, fate would no doubt make them pay for it dearly.

There was a mall just a few blocks from the house they’d holed up in, a smaller sized shopping center, but with a pharmacy and a few clothing outlets. Rick had enlisted Daryl, Glenn, and Carol to help him scope it out. Daryl preferred trips with Rick alone, silences were always more comfortable, and when words were spoken, they always seemed to mean more. As much as he cared for Glenn and Carol, the more people to join them on supply runs, the more people to look out for and divide his attention.

Then, as they were clearing out what was left in the pharmacy, Rick asked him to accompany him in going on ahead to secure the nearest clothing store  to clear out any walkers that could be lurking inside.

“We’ll need some lighter clothes for when the weather gets warmer.” Rick commented as they walked, rounding the corner to face the entrance to the store, “We’ve only got our winter gear.”

Daryl would just be cutting the sleeves off of all his winter clothes like he’d been doing since he was a kid, but he knew the others would prefer some actual t-shirts to wear for when the sun got hot and the air got humid.

Rick used the handle of his knife to rap against the window of the store, hoping to attract any nearby walkers and to rouse them from their stupors.

There was no activity, so sounds coming from inside, so Rick gave Daryl a quick nod for him to go on in.

Raising his crossbow he slowly crept inside, peering into the dark. Rick shone a flashlight, illuminating the eerie mannequins and casting shadows across the walls. The world was still silent around them, save for their shallow breaths and the soft sounds of their boots on the floor.

“Looks clear.” Darul grunted. The store was small and there were very few places to hide here.

“Alright. Keep an eye out though.” Rick started sweeping his light over the racks of clothes, scouting out the t-shirts.

Daryl stayed on guard, not too interested in looking for clothes. What he had would do him just fine.

It was near the end of that thought that he caught sight of something, something soft and green and delicate. A cocktail dress, something pricey and probably worth more than Daryl was worth in money.

Without thinking he reached out and ran his hand down it, feeling like a sinner being forgiven for his sins. It was silk and soft and gentle on his skin, he plucked it off the hanger and held it tenderly.

He never felt like less of a man than in that moment, and he felt ok. He could transcend.

“That’s a nice dress.” Rick’s voice shattered the reverie, making Daryl flinch.

“Fer some rich bitch.” He said gruffly, “The price people put on clothing is ridiculous. Don’t need nothin’ you can’t get at a thrift store.”

He hoped that saved him, hoped Rick wouldn’t see anything more than a broke redneck bearing hostility for the upper class pansies who used to shop in that store, wouldn’t read into it.

“I suppose so. It’s still very nice.”

Daryl shrugged, draping the dress back over the hanger, shoving his hands in his pockets. His hands would just want to reach for it again. “Whatever. Hurry up and let’s go.”

Rick slowly nodded, turning back to the summer wear.

‘ _Fucking faggot ass pervert._ ’

Daryl closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath, but he could still feel a ghost of the silk running through his fingers, taunting him for something he could never have. The world was too rotten for him to ever be beautiful.

 

* * *

 

Rick shifted through the button up shirts, but his mind wasn’t fully on the task. He still couldn’t get the look in Daryl’s eye out of his head, when he had been holding that dress. Maybe the article of clothing reminded him of someone, of a girlfriend, or of his late mother. Because that had been a mournful look, a _yearnful_ look.

It hadn’t been the first time he’d noticed it, there had been a few other instances.

He’d always had his doubts about his friend’s sexuality, but Rick wasn’t a man who concerned himself too much with those topics. If Daryl was gay, that wasn’t any of his business, and if he wasn’t, that also wasn’t any of his business. If he was secretly into drag, than who was Rick to think anything of it? Of course he wasn’t someone who Rick could ever imagine being interested in dressing as a woman, and the only reason Rick had doubted Daryl's heterosexuality in the first place was in observing how he interacted with women.

Daryl wasn’t someone who Rick considered to be interested in anyone or _anything_ , aside from hunting and tracking. But when the man looked at dresses, there was an intensity to his gaze that Rick had never seen in him before.

He remembered a conversation they’d had one night, after finding a bottle of rum and splitting it between themselves. Daryl could always hold his liquor, but got tipsy enough that when they got to the topic of women and the women in their lives, all Daryl had said was, “Sometimes I think th’ only woman I want in m’ life is myself.”

It had taken Rick by surprise, and despite Daryl’s joking tone, there was something else at play.

“Would you have preferred to have been born a girl?”

Daryl had shook his had, “Nah man. I’m not like that. It’s jus’ like… I don’t know. I’m more than this.” He’d gestured to himself. “Any of this.”

Rick had figured that everyone was more than the sum of their appearance, but Daryl had seemed almost desperate to try to find the right words to describe what he meant, like if he didn’t explain the feelings he had right at that moment, he’d never find the words again. Rick could appreciate that, he knew how hard it could be to articulate yourself for something complicated and personal.

If Daryl was transgender, then that’d be one thing. It was an idea would be supremely hard to get his head around, because Daryl was far from a woman in his eye. But if he had been, then at least that’d be something concrete, something he could slowly learn to understand.

But it seemed like it what Daryl actually felt, what he was actually feeling, was both something less complicate and more complicated at the same time. And Rick wasn’t to understand, and he wanted _desperately_ to help Daryl understand himself.

He cared deeply for his friend, he knew there was a lot of pain inside him from years of abuse and self hatred. If there was anything he could do to make it easier for him to feel comfortable in his own skin, then he wanted to do it.

Daryl was currently fidgeting by the entrance of the store, picking at his nails. Rick observed the slump of his shoulders, the arch of his spine, the tilt of his hips.  

“Hey Daryl…” Rick called out, “This one looks even nicer --” reaching out to grasp a a grey-blue dress from a nearby rack, and after a moment's hesitation, added, “--it goes with your eyes.”

Daryl bristled, “The fuck does that mean?”

Rick shrugged, hoping he hadn’t gotten it all wrong, that he wasn’t offending him, “Nothing, just that it looks good.”

“Do I look like some kinda’ faggot to you?”

A silence fell upon them, but Rick could see something behind Daryl’s words. Daryl generally didn’t get pissed anymore, back in the early days he’d been a short fuse but after all this time, if he thought someone was joking around with him he’d go with it and laugh it off. He was always casual, let Carol make her jabs and play along.

Which means Daryl took this seriously, took this personally, and was afraid.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.” Rick steeled himself, “I genuinely think this dress would look very nice on you.”

The silence extended, and Daryl’s eyes darted back and forth between Rick and the dress, horror and fear and… hope? Rick wanted Daryl to have hope, he wanted him to trust him, trust that Rick would never do anything to humiliate him or shame him.

“I aint like that.” Daryl finally muttered. “It aint like that.”

“Aint like what?”

“I aint… I aint a queer.” He blurted out, “I’m not… I’m not gay.”

“Clothes don’t have anything to do with sexuality, Daryl. Or gender, for that matter. If you like wearing dresses, if you feel good wearing dresses, than that’s all.” Rick soothed, setting the dress down, and opening his bag to toss in a few more t-shirts, “And if it does have to do with something more than just clothes, then that’s ok too. I’m not assuming anything.”  
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Rick shrugged, “Ok. Just know that it’s… it’s all ok.”

Daryl shook his head and turned away from him, and Rick was half glad, because then he couldn’t see him carefully slipping the dress into the bag.

 

* * *

  


Daryl was afraid.

Merle was dead and the air was warm and they had more food than they knew what to do with, but he’d never been more afraid in his life. Rick knew, or at least he thought he knew, _fuck_ even Daryl didn’t fully know. This complicated, twisted, painful thing inside him, it wasn’t something Daryl let himself analyze but clearly Rick wanted to.

He didn’t seem repulsed, back in the clothing store. That scared him even more. No one should allow him to just accept this sick, perverted fantasy of his.

_It’s not a fantasy, it something real and concrete that’s always been apart of who you are._

That sounded like Rick, whispering quietly, telling him it was ok to be who he was. This wasn’t an after school special though, and he was too old to go through an identity crisis. This wasn’t him. When he was younger, maybe, but he’d grown out of it.

_I’m a man. I’m a man. I’m a man. I’m a man._

Clearly he wasn’t a woman. He didn’t want a vagina, he didn’t want to be called ma’am, he didn’t want to be perceived as a woman. So he must be a man. He’d always been a man.

_Pa didn’t raise no fucking queer for a son._

He pulled his blanket tighter around himself, curling up in the fetal position. The night had aged and it was almost morning, but he still felt electric bolts of energy flowing through his body. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even think half the time.

He felt disgusting, and for a second he realised it wasn’t because he wanted to wear that gorgeous grey dress that Rick had held up… no, it was because he felt rough, worn, worn away like he was going to disappear and for a second he had almost gotten a taste of feeling pure again and it had been snatched away from him.

It was his own fault, for all his fear of feeling like nothing, he couldn’t let himself feel something if that something was _that._ He couldn’t afford to feel pretty -- back then, it was because of the people he was around, and because he literally couldn’t afford it, but now it was because now that he was free (more than he’d ever been in his life) if he let himself get a proper taste of what he wanted, he didn’t know if he could go back to the shell of the filthy, worn out fake man that he was.

That’s what he was, after all, fake and wearing thin, into nothing.

He rolled over, and something caught his eye. His bag was open, knocked over, some of the contents spilling out. He had been sure it was zipped up last he'd seen it earlier that evening, before dinner. He couldn't imagine any of the group going through his things without permission, let alone be stealing from him, so he slowly climbed out of bed, hesitant. 

Approaching the bag, he could soon see that nothing was missing, but that there was something there that hadn't been earlier. He was almost scared to reach out and touch it, in case it was all a dream and it would disappear. 

Soft grey silk.

 


End file.
